Monday, June 06, 2011


I see cemeteries in the patterns of

the cushions on the couch

There are no floral embroideries

only death lilies in distant funeral homes

that I believe may be planted

in my nose.

Wearing black,

Sometimes I feel I am invisible,

Other times I am a chameleon

on this couch


I crush into my own rubble.

They question my stability

Trying all natural remedies

they wont turn off the lights

that sting my wounds

incapable of clearing these red eyes

they are afraid of my pain.

I lay the fetal position

dreaming of head stones and dirt-

I am clawing at the top of a coffin

covered in mud in the rain.